


Good Company

by boltlightning



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Pre-Series, headcanon hell, or: how roy gathered up his gang of nerds, post-ishval so there's angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8525899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltlightning/pseuds/boltlightning
Summary: Behind every good officer is his team. A newly promoted Roy Mustang sets out to gather his.





	1. grumman

General Grumman welcomes the newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang to East City with a handshake, lukewarm tea, and a game of chess.

Mustang, having recently returned from the warfront, finds himself struggling. For four years in Ishval, he had been told where to march, whom to kill, and what to do, and his grasp on strategy is loose and shaky as a result. As unassuming as Grumman may look, he is positively destroying Mustang in this match and making small talk all the while.

“There is much talk of you in Central, Lieutenant Colonel.” Grumman strokes his mustache as he considers the chessboard. If he is actually thinking deeply about his moves, there is little indication, as he doesn’t pause for long. He moves his white bishop into a position that endangers Roy’s rook. “You’re very popular, yet you ended up in drab old East City. What made you come here?”

Roy moves his pawn between white bishop and black rook, and cringes internally when he realizes how lame the move is. He doesn’t meet Grumman’s eyes as he considers the board and his question all in one. There are several answers he can give the general, each worse than the last: _This is the best offensive command in the nation, and I’m sure you’ve heard I have much to offer. My family is originally from East City, so I have roots here. Madame Christmas has informants in the city and the contacts will make my job and life easier. I couldn’t stand working in Central, under the apathetic top brass that let the entire nation of Ishval get decimated for reasons I am still struggling to process. And maybe, just maybe, controlling the militant forces occupying what remains of Ishval may give me a chance to atone for what I’ve done._

He decides to give the Grumman a safe non-answer, in his most unassuming voice. “The East is beautiful, sir – it has no shortage of stunning scenery, and the women here are gorgeous.”

Grumman chuckles. When Roy looks up, the glare of the sunlight off Grumman’s glasses makes it impossible to make out his eyes. “A man after my own heart. Regardless of your reasons, it’s an honor to have the Hero of Ishval under my command.”

Involuntarily, Roy winces at the nickname. Grumman’s eyebrows quirk upwards, and the glare off his glasses shifts as he leans forward. “Not your favorite nickname, Mustang?” he asks.

Roy averts his eyes to the chessboard. The general moves his queen to take the rook that Roy had tried to protect. Damn. “What I did in Ishval should not have been rewarded, sir,” he murmurs. Without thinking much, he nudges one of the white bishops to the side with his knight, and removes the taken piece from the board. It takes all his focus to keep his hand from shaking. “Alchemy should be used to protect the people, not destroy them.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. What does he know about this Lieutenant General Grumman? He had heard the name before, both within and beyond the military – gossip in Central said he was an eccentric old widower with an affinity for women young enough to be his children. He is openly telling a complete stranger and his _commanding officer_ that he disagreed with the very orders that had earned him his fame and promotion.

Rather than taking his next move, Grumman leans back and observes Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, his arms folded across his narrow chest. Roy feels his throat close up. Something is _different_ about this man, so different from the generals in Central. Roy can’t place it, nor decide whether or not it will be the end of his career. It seems his grasp of strategy is not just loose from war – it has been completely obliterated.

“Y’know,” he says at length, “they had warned me that you were something else, Roy Mustang. Top of your class in the academy, the youngest state alchemist yet, the Hero of Ishval – but you are nothing like I’d assumed. How old are you, Lieutenant Colonel?”

Roy manages to croak out, “I’ll be 27 this spring, sir.”

“Hmph. I was 26 when I was married, hardly more than a boy.” Grumman removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes, and suddenly he looks tired, weary beyond belief. “Somehow, you seem much older than I was then, my boy. Though you do _look_ your age, perhaps even younger.” He moves to stroke his mustache instead, twirling the curl at the end. “Have you considered facial hair, Lieutenant Colonel? It’ll make all those naysayers pipe down, I’m sure.”

Just like that, the mood shifts. It is so sudden that Roy feels the whiplash, and hesitates before he answers. “I’ll take it under advisement, sir,” he says, and throws Grumman a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Roy grabs at the knees of his pants beneath the table to steady his hands. Clearly, Grumman can sense his discomfort, for the general tuts and pours him more of the tea that had been forgotten over the course of the meeting. It’s stagnant now, but a polite gesture nonetheless.

Grumman moves his queen to the side of the board; an innocuous move, it seemingly does nothing. Still, Roy hesitates before moving his other knight to take another one of Grumman’s main players. “Here’s the deal, Mustang.” He clears his throat. “The East is quiet, but it’s still a lot of work for me to run with these shams that Central keeps shunting off in my direction. I need reliable help, and you’re a young officer with plentiful ambition.”

Roy meets the general’s eyes, guarding his expression carefully – could this man already know of Roy’s plans to succeed Bradley? Would he be suspected of treason so soon? He had already mentioned his disdain for the executive orders issued in Ishval. Surely, in a state as militaristic as Amestris, high treason would be punishable by firing squad. But Grumman _laughs_ (of all the ways he could react!) and dismisses the lieutenant colonel’s fears with a wave of his hand, as though the gesture is supposed to be reassuring. “Ambition is _good_ , son. Every man wants a taste of power. Though I think you have different plans for your power than old farts such as I.

“Look. It’s been this dull since the Ishval uprising was put down. The desert gives us a nice, comfortable buffer between any Xingese brigands and Amestris. No revolts will be popping up any time soon, as I think you know. Normally, I give transferred officers a staff I can rely on to keep them straight, but I’ll bend my own rules for you. Pick the officers for your team.”

Roy’s stomach drops. His hand hesitates over his queen and king, still side by side, and he frowns before he can stop himself from doing so. “Sir?”

“You heard me. Any proper commanding officer here needs a good, respectful bullpen, and I want you to handpick your men. Name anyone, and I’ll do what I can to get them under your command. But pick your allies carefully – soldiers are very good at wearing masks.”

Who did he even have left? Of the millions of people in this country, there were only two who he felt could stand by his side. The first: “Major Maes Hughes. He’s in Central right now. The sharpest man I know.”

Grumman smirks, and shifts so he can prop his head up with his fist. He examines the chessboard idly, as a king would look over his court. “Hmm, I had a feeling you’d ask for him. Unfortunately, the Investigations Office snatched up Major Hughes at the same time I snagged you for Eastern Command, and they won’t be willing to trade him. Is there anyone else?”

The second: _Warrant Officer Riza Hawkeye_. But she would probably never want to see him again, much less serve under his command. Upon her request, he had burned the secrets she bore on her back before they left Ishval, and he and Hughes had seen her off at the East City train station with hardly a parting word. Perhaps he would run into her here at Eastern Command, but he couldn’t ask her to report directly to him every day. He couldn’t even ask her to look him in the eye after what he’d done. No, he could not hurt her again. “No, sir. No one else I can think of off the top of my head.”

The curve of Grumman’s brow seems to indicate that he _knows_ Roy has someone else in mind, but everything about Grumman exudes this sort of energy. That keenness is what makes him different – it’s the air of cleverness that Grumman inhales and exhales, the sharp glint in his eye. Roy is a smooth-talker himself, and no slump at that, but Grumman’s tongue is as sharp as Hughes’ knives, his words as deadly as Hawkeye’s aim. Roy was under the impression this man was tired, living out his military career in the quietest sector of the nation until he could retire with his comfortable pension to a mansion in the country. He couldn’t be more wrong. Grumman is clearly still pushing his own agenda, slowly but surely. The realization sets in in a single moment, and as Roy’s eyes widen, so does Grumman’s smirk.

“I’ll give you a few weeks to get me a list of prospective officers,” Grumman says. His queen cuts through Roy’s carefully managed wall of pawns, but Roy can’t sacrifice his _own_ queen – he sends one of his knights in to strengthen the blockade. “There’s a lot of sharp minds here; there’s bound to be soldiers that will work well with you.”

“I look forward to meeting them, sir. You seem very fond of them.”

The blockade fails, and abruptly, Grumman slams his queen down right in the center of Roy’s pieces. The old general grins. “That’s checkmate, my boy.”

The smile that Roy returns Grumman is weak, abashed. “That it is, sir. I was really no match for you, was I?” He shakes his head. “War has left me rusty, I’m afraid.”

Grumman offers his hand over the chessboard, and Roy shakes it firmly. They meet eyes; Roy is not _just_ talking about his chess skills, and the gleam in Grumman’s eye seems to affirm that he knew it well. “Worry not, Lieutenant Colonel. Eastern Command will get you up to our standards soon enough.” He chuckles to himself, twirling the end of his mustache again.

The two chat for a while longer as Grumman packs up his chess set – it’s idle small talk, but Roy can’t shake the feeling that he’s being sized up the same way a chef chooses select cuts at a butcher shop. Eventually, they stand and shake hands once more.

“We’ll have to do this again, Mustang,” Grumman promises. “I’ll send my secretary when I feel the need to whoop some ass. And let me know if any of the newbies give you trouble…they may well get the same treatment.”

Roy hesitates before he turns to leave the office. “Sir, if I may ask – why are you doing this for me?”

The two examine each other carefully for a few moments; Grumman is stock-still as he appears to collect his thoughts, his mustache twitching every now and then. When he breaks the silence, it’s a non-answer, just as Roy had given him earlier: “I’m a great judge of character, son. My granddaughter is still unmarried, you know, and with any luck, I’ll find her so good a husband she’ll be the next First Lady. I guess you could say I’m trying you out.”

Roy sighs, and the smile that graces his face this time is almost resigned – he shouldn’t have expected a real answer. “I’m sure she’s lovely, General.”

As the newly promoted lieutenant colonel attempts to navigate his way back to his office (Eastern Command was organized much differently than Central), he mulls over the general’s words. _Soldiers are very good at wearing masks_. Roy didn’t need to be reminded of that, not anymore, but Grumman apparently spoke exclusively in deceptively languid language, peppered with hidden meaning. He knew the general’s name from gossip, yes, but hadn’t a Lieutenant General Grumman observed his state certification exam in Central all those years ago? How did he end up here if he had once been highly respected?

Maybe he’s overthinking this. Roy shakes his head, runs his hands through his bangs, and finally musters up the courage to ask a passing private where his office is.


	2. vanessa

Roy Mustang, a lieutenant colonel and a state alchemist, has apparently become a spectacle much like an animal in a zoo. His office is his cage. Day after day, high-ranking officers swing by to take a look at the young upstart who had managed to wrangle himself enough favor to achieve so high a rank.

The board meetings become circus events; the other colonels take him through the ringer to see what he’s made of. Skeptical looks and muttered gossip follow him wherever he goes. In their attempts to gauge this young man, Roy is invited to lunches, tours of the city, shooting range trips. He accepts and declines when he feels he can, but as soon as the other colonels invite him out for drinks at his favorite hole-in-the-wall bar, previously his military-free haven, he realizes he needs to hide from them. No doubt they would try to swap war stories with the Hero of Ishval over a few cold beers, and Roy couldn’t stomach the thought.

As soon as office hours end, Roy sneaks into the archive room. Not a soul knows he’s hiding out here. The door clicks shut softly behind him, and he lets out a sigh of relief. The silence and stillness of the rows and rows of shelves are welcomingly muffling. He had been meaning to brush up on the history and culture of Ishval since he’d returned from the front, and found it much more respectful to study these people rather than trade anecdotes about how he had slaughtered them.

Roy gathers up several towers worth of promising volumes and overflowing binders the nation state. He claims a table in a deserted corner for his work and inadvertently creates a wall of information around himself. It had been far too long since he’d lost himself in such studies, and this would be a welcome return to his never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

He is skimming through dry telegram exchanges regarding the military occupation of Ishval, which are merely months old, when he hears footsteps. An officer rounds the corner, carrying a large stack of documents in his arms. As he approaches, Roy picks out more details about this man – it seems everything about him is slim. He is tall and lanky, and would be hardly visible from behind the tower of folders he bears if it weren’t for his shoulders. His shoulder marks indicate that he’s currently a corporal. He glances at Roy and nods at him, and he is so focused that his narrow eyes merely glance over the lieutenant colonel.

Roy snaps out of his reading-induced trance just before the man rounds the corner. “Corporal!” he calls, hoarser than he intends. He glances at his silver pocket watch, open on the desk next to him. Goodness, he’d been here for hours already – how could it be that late? 

“Sir?” The corporal returns. He sets his tower of paper down on the table, and brushes off his uniform, and lets his eyes drift down to the table. They wander from the stacks of books, to Roy’s pocket watch, to the shoulder marks on his uniform jacket draped over the back of his chair. Realization hits him – abruptly, he straightens up and salutes. “L-Lieutenant Colonel, sir! What did you need?”

Roy smirks; as stiff as he found the formalities, the novelty of his title never seemed to wear off. “At ease, Corporal. I just had a question." 

“Of course, sir.”

“You know much about the occupation in Ishval?” Roy taps at the folder he has open before him. “I think there’s some documents that might have conveniently gone missing.”

The corporal scratches the back of his neck. “It was a pretty recent order, so what you have there is more or less all we have on it. There was a telegram between the Führer’s office and some of the Lieutenant Generals who sat on the war board during the war, but that’s all that was filed elsewhere,” he says. He clears his throat and, before Roy can even ask, recites: “ _All clear here. Rebels remain, but we will squash them. Request for troops has been sent to your office._ ”

Roy blinks. “And that’s verbatim?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.

“It should be, sir,” the corporal confides. “I read it with my own eyes.”

“How many soldiers are stationed there right now?”

“There’s only one occupied area of the territory, held down by 283 troops currently.”

“That exact of a number?” Roy raises an eyebrow; this man is certainly unique. The corporal seems to sense that this lieutenant colonel before him is more curious than doubtful, and tries to restrain his sheepish smile.

“Yes, sir. It was originally 300, but there have been 17 deaths due to an outbreak of cholera in the camp.”

In disbelief, Roy glances down at the documents laid out on the table – sure enough, 17 deaths were confirmed a few weeks prior due to cholera. The casualty reports were paired with a request for more reliable filtration services. How did this man know this without looking? An ordinary officer working in the file room who had apparently never served in Ishval wouldn’t just have this information tucked away for fun. He decides to test his suspicions,

“Tell me, Corporal. What year was Führer Bradley born?”

Corporal Memory, as Roy mentally dubs him, frowns, but still answers the question. “1854, sir. He’s our youngest Führer yet.”

“And the Führer before him?”

“Führer Wilson, born in 1784. Our third youngest Führer.”

“Amestrian Doctrine, Article I, Section 8?”

“Military regulations. There’s many specific clauses, but it focuses largely on hierarchy of power and defining the limits of military jurisdiction in peacetime.”

“What’s the national symphony performing this week?" 

“A Drachman opera whose name I will absolutely butcher if I try to pronounce it.”

“Will they be broadcasting it?”

“Yes sir, on their wireless channel 90.9. The concert starts at nine o’clock Thursday night.”

“What are they serving in the cafeteria tomorrow?”

Corporal Memory answers dutifully, “Clam chowder and day-old bread, as usual.”

“And your verdict?”

“The chowder’s watery and the bread is tough. Pretty tasteless stuff, if you ask me.”

Roy grins. “There’s something special about you, Corporal. One last question: What’s your name?”

Corporal Memory salutes him, rigid and serious. “Corporal Vato Falman, sir.”

“Well, Corporal Falman,” Roy greets at last, and kicks out the chair opposite him from under the table, “take a seat, why don’t you?”

Nervously, Falman slides into the offered chair, looking as though he doesn’t belong. He clasps his hands nervously together on the table. “You’re…You’re Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.” Even Roy’s patented charming, crooked smile doesn’t seem to set Falman at ease. Damn, he must be losing his touch. “Roy Mustang, at your service.” Roy pushes past his stacks of books to offer his hand to Falman, who shakes it with a surprisingly firm grip. “That’s quite a gift you’ve got there, Corporal. I’ve been called a bookworm more times than I care to count, and I could never remember exact numbers and dates the way you do.”

The smile that Falman flashes him is bashful. He seems to loosen up at such praise from a high-ranking officer. “Everything I read, I remember, sir. It’s been like that since I was a child. When my mother didn’t want to read my siblings a bedtime story, she’d have me recite one of my books for them.”

“Huh.” Roy chuckles. “Y’know, my sisters always used to make fun of me for reading so much. With all due respect, Corporal, I can’t imagine how they’d react if they knew I was _that_ close of a reader.”

“Oh no, sir, I understand. Why do you think I work in the archives?” Falman gestures vaguely around him, to the rows and rows of dimly lit shelves. “One colonel noticed I was good with paperwork and I wound up here…my talent doesn’t come up that often, actually, and it’s certainly not much use in the military.”

Roy barely reacts, but the entire mood of the conversation shifts when he delays his reply. Amestris had been stuck in a perpetual cycle of war since its very inception, and its most praised academics had become weapons. Intellectuals and scientists had been given certification, wealth, high commendation, and orders on the front lines to use their knowledge to destroy and murder. Roy had spent many nights since Ishval watching the silver shadows on his ceiling dance by, wondering what would have been different if he had fought against his orders.

Knowledge was indeed power, particularly to the government. And Roy would not misuse it, nor allow this man to think he did not have that exact sort of power. At length, he replies, “Nonsense, Corporal.” He slides back and laces his hands together, elbows on the table. “A brain like yours is invaluable to the military. You remember anything without a paper trail, like a recording device. And you must certainly know the legal code better than anyone.”

“I – I suppose so, sir,” he stammers.

This man is overly formal, clearly a sign of a soldier with little field experience, but he’s friendly and has an insane talent. Roy considers him over his piles of books for a moment before deciding that his team could use a man who could remember more or less _anything_. It would come in handy in the future, certainly.

“You’re on call tonight, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir. I’m on the graveyard shift tonight.”

Roy stands, stretching his cramping leg muscles. “I’ve a proposition for you…we can discuss it over coffee. I’ll grab us some from the cart outside. Cream, sugar?”

“Just bring the containers.” Falman rubs at his forehead. “It depends which of the secretaries made the last pot. Joy is lovely, but she makes it too black even by soldier standards, sir.”

Roy laughs to himself as he heads towards the hallway. He pauses before he rounds the nearest shelf. “Say, Falman…forget I was here tomorrow morning. The brass might come asking where I was.”

But Falman looks up at the lieutenant colonel, a sideways smirk on his face. It seems his façade is lowering, after all. “Impossible, sir. I don’t forget anything. But I will cover for you.”

“Hmm. Not many people would do this for a newly transferred officer. You know you’re my bedfellow by agreeing to this, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Falman salutes. “I consider it an honor.” And the declaration is so sincere that Roy has no snarky reply.

As Roy pours two cups of the tepid coffee sitting deserted on the cart outside, he starts a mental list of people to recommend to General Grumman. Hopefully Roy would be able to break Falman free of his rigid demeanor in due time. Using skills ingrained from his days as a busboy in Madame Christmas’ bar, Roy scoops up the cream, sugar, and coffee in his arms and returns to the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like to think falman is the legal expert in the office - he knows the law so well that everybody, including roy and riza, consults him when they're unsure about the legality of something, and he gets really bashful when they thank him for his advice. the world needs more vato falmans.


	3. jacqueline and brady

The men in this bar are clearly academy-trained officers – Roy recognizes their card games as soon as he sees them deal out the hands.

The two companions are also still wearing the bottom halves of their uniforms, though it isn’t obvious in the dim lighting. One is tall and blond, proudly flaunting his muscular arms without his uniform jacket. The other is shorter, more heavy-set, and apparently makes up for his lesser physique with somewhat better clothing; he wears a thinning collared shirt over his undershirt. The tall one has his cigarettes, and the shorter one always seems to be waving the smoke clouds from his face. As different as they may seem, the two officers are thick as thieves, and grin smugly at each other as a crowd gathers around them.

From his seat at the bar, Roy watches as the bar patrons take bets, surrounding the table the two have occupied. The shorter one shuffles the deck with ease, letting the cards tumble in his hands with barely a glance. The crowd places their bets into a hat on the edge of the table. One of the officers deals the cards, and they gather up their hands – someone starts the clock, and the game is _on._

This particular game was designed to fit in between patrol shifts and lectures at the academy, so it is based on speed – it is quick, dirty, and unrelenting. The crowd is silent as the two blaze through the game with barely a moment of hesitation. The blond throws down his last card first and pumps his fists into the air, his cigarette tumbling from his mouth as the cheers begin. Those who had bet on the wrong player groan and pat the loser on the back, but he seems to still be in good spirits – he shrugs, smiling complacently, and begins to count the bet money.

“Half goes to the performers,” he tells the crowd, grinning, “and all you winners over here can squabble over the rest. But it’s gettin’ late and we have duty in the morning, so you need to duke it out somewhere else.”

“Breda, hey,” the blond interjects. “Look at all the money we just got. Pander to the fans, wouldja?”

Breda rolls his eyes, but lets his friend chat with the gamblers before they disperse.

Roy continues to watch out of sheer curiosity as the officers count their cens. Breda neatly separates the coins from the bills as his partner bids his farewells to the straggling gamblers. A waitress brings Roy the beer he’d forgotten he ordered, and Roy briefly breaks his focus away from the two officers. “Thanks,” he manages to say, still distracted, and fumbles over the money he has tucked into his pocket.

“Not a problem, dear,” she dismisses, but takes his crumpled bill anyway. “Those two soldiers are in here pretty often – they’re entertaining, if nothin’ but a bunch of freeloaders.” The waitress winks at him, tells him to wave her down if he needs another drink, and whirls away.

The officers had moved in the span of that interaction, but Roy quickly finds them at the opposite end of the bar. The bartender, a small young woman, greets them in the shadows of a pillar – Roy casually scoots down a few stools to eavesdrop better. He takes a swig of his beer in an attempt to appear inconspicuous, but no one is paying him much mind. 

“Thank you two so much,” the bartender murmurs, clutching something close to her chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Roy sees a coin fall from the object, and upon closer inspection, he identifies it as the hat that had served as the betting pot. “This will help.”

“New landlord should be pretty lenient,” Breda tells her. “Havoc and I go way back with the guy – and I’ve got enough dirt on him to bury him alive. He shouldn’t give you any problems.”

“Oh, he’s left me well alone. Only stops by to collect rent.”

The tall one (Havoc, is it?) brushes his thumb past his nose. “And your ex shouldn’t be much of a problem either…I’ve got a buddy in the investigations office who’ll look the other way when we unceremoniously dump Breda’s load of evidence in his lap. Your guy’ll be behind bars within the week…and not these kind of bars, hopefully.” He grins at his own joke, completely ignoring the dramatic eye roll Breda throws in his direction. The bartender thanks them again, kisses them each on the cheek (which causes Havoc to practically melt), and offers them a few beers on the house before they have to leave.

They settle into seats at the dark end of the bar, and Roy casually slides down next to them. “That’s quite some game you two play,” he starts casually. Breda is examining him with a furrowed brow, but Havoc is apparently still distracted by the bartender.

“Learned it at the military academy,” he sighs dreamily, absently tracing the label on his bottle of beer. Breda nudges his companion, and Havoc blinks a few times as he snaps to. “Oh, yeah, we graduated a few years ago. Just one of the pastimes.” He offers his hand to this stranger, smiling politely. “Sergeant Jean Havoc, at your service." 

As Roy shakes Havoc’s hand, his friend introduces himself. “Sergeant Breda,” he grunts. Havoc quickly amends, “His first name is _Heymans_ , but he thinks it’s too embarrassing.”

“It’s just a mouthful all together,” Breda mutters into the mouth of the beer bottle. 

“Call me Roy.”

He chats with the two as the finish their final beers for the night. Havoc spends the time staring after the cute bartender, but Breda’s conversation with Roy is informative enough. Havoc had been an average soldier; Breda was top of his class. They’re both from the eastern country. Roy is, frankly, relieved to talk to soldiers without being addressed by his titles, so he keeps his details more vague – he tells Breda that he works a dull office job with a lot of paperwork (which is not untrue). He meets them a few times there over a matter of weeks, and their acquaintanceship is light and easy. 

Roy is eventually outed as their superior officer at the shooting range.

He is notoriously a poor shot. While he had developed pinpoint accuracy with his alchemy, his marksmanship with a gun is nothing to shake a stick at. Nonetheless, the shooting range is often deserted and allows him to focus on something besides his own thoughts, so his trips to the range on Eastern Command’s campus are frequent. He finds he is not alone when an officer greets him at the lockers.

“Roy!” Jean Havoc, wielding a rifle, salutes as he approaches. “Or should I say _Lieutenant Colonel_?”

Roy has been caught red-handed, in uniform, with those ever-incriminating stripes and stars on his shoulders. He holds his hands up in defeat. “Alright, you got me. I didn’t think I’d run into you guys here so soon – it’s a big command center. Let me properly introduce myself.” He peels off his glove and offers the exposed hand. “Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang.” 

As he shakes his hand, Havoc whistles a low note. “Breda’s gonna blow his lid when he finds out we’ve been drinking with a lieutenant colonel,” he laughs, “and the _Flame Alchemist_ , at that. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” The question isn’t accusatory – Havoc is still smiling as he pulls out a box of cigarettes.

“You want the truth?” Roy shrugs. “I’m hand-picking officers for my team, and wanted to get to know you two before I made any final decisions.”

Havoc sticks a cigarette between his teeth, but is not ruffled by the revelation. He gets a better grip on the rifle and fiddles with the trigger. “Well, I doubt I’m the brightest guy you’ll meet, but I do know how to shoot.” He hoists the rifle up into position and aims at an imaginary target in the distance, squinting through the scope. Through the corners of his eyes, he looks over at Roy, who can only laugh.

“That’s always a plus,” he admits. “Where’s Breda?”

“Probably in the cafeteria.” With the mechanical movements of a well-trained soldier, Havoc shifts to attention, the rifle by his side. As he talks, he puts the weapon back in its place. “I’m actually supposed to go meet him now. Do you want me to break the news, or do you want that honor?” he asks smugly. The cigarette sticks straight up in his lip when he smirks.

Roy slips on his ignition glove (left conveniently in his pocket) and snaps, lighting the cigarette for Havoc. With a yelp of shock, Havoc drops the now-smoldering cigarette to the ground. “You shouldn’t smoke those, y’know,” Roy says casually, as he turns on his heel to exit the weapon storage. “They’ll kill you.”

Havoc hastily stamps out the cigarette and trots after him, flustered.

The cafeteria is largely empty, but sure enough, Breda is sitting at a lonely table in the corner of the deserted room. “Sergeant Breda,” Roy calls when he grows nearer, Havoc at his heels. The sergeant turns from his lunch, still holding his sandwich in his mouth.

“Oh, hello sir,” he greets past his mouthful, nonchalant. Havoc sits next to his fellow officer; Roy sits across from them.

“You’re not surprised to see me here?”

“I had my suspicions,” Breda says with a shrug. He swallows his food. “ _Roy_ isn’t all that common a first name. And you seemed to know a lot about the military.”

“Well, now that you know who I am for sure…” Roy pulls a deck of cards out of his pocket and holds it up for the two officers to see. “How about a round of that game? You two seem particularly fond of it.”

Roy takes his time shuffling the deck, using the time to explain the openings on his team. They finally show their serious professional sides as they thank him for the consideration, and Roy nods curtly as he deals out the first round of cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it just didn't seem right to have them introduced in separate chapters, so here we are. the ultimate field duo is finally here


	4. elizabeth

Roy Mustang will only return to his internal office when the rest of his team has left. The bullpen empties, and Roy stays hours late in his silent, impersonal office, catching up on old work.

Recently, he’s been exhausted. Falman brews what is potentially the best coffee in the command center, yet as much as Roy drinks, he finds himself nodding off. He bridges his fingers, elbows on the desk, and tells himself he’ll rest his eyes for only a moment – but it is never just a moment.

His eyes close and suddenly, he is in the desert. There is sand under his fingernails and caught in his hair. Against his back, the dull, muted heat of sandstone left baking in the sun seeps through his uniform. The wall provides him with shade. A radio chatters nearby; the sharp, echoless crack of gunfire is distant, but omnipresent. His tongue is thick with the tinny taste of the water in his canteen, which, along with his military-issued firearm, weighs down the belt at his waist. His mouth is dry and it’s _hot_ , yet there is no breeze to relieve the troops, and wells are few and far between.

There are no orders – they’re waiting on instructions from the colonel, state alchemist, and commanding officer Basque Grand. In the scant shade provided by the ruins of an Ishvalan town, the troops rest and recover. Major Mustang rests his eyes, aching from the bright, harsh climate. Next to him, Captain Hughes tinkers with the mechanisms of his pocket watch, fiddling with the gears with an improvised screwdriver. The watch had been shattered a few weeks back, taking a bullet that otherwise would have pierced Mustang’s chest. Though Mustang had fixed the faceplate with alchemy, he hadn’t bothered with the guts of the thing. Hughes, to waste time, took it upon himself to fix it with what limited knowledge he had of the clockwork. The soft, almost rhythmic clinking blends with the murmur of conversation around him, the muffled gunfire in the distance. It creates a listless discord that lingers in his mind.

He feels himself pitch forward, close to collapse – and cracks open an eye. Abruptly, he lurches backwards. He is caught by his plush chair in his office in Eastern Command, miles and miles from the desert. Slowly, he lets out the breath he was holding. Dreams of the warfront are becoming scarcer as he puts time between himself and the war, but they leave him shaken still. He is grateful for the solitude that staying late gives him.

Footsteps are approaching his office – that must’ve been what startled him awake. He attempts to refocus on his work, but the forms before him are difficult to discern in his present state of mind. Before he can pack up everything, the footsteps stop outside his door and seem to hesitate. The door finally opens, and admits a very familiar face.

He is looking at her, but he doesn’t _see_ her. He sees, instead, the fog of days gone.

He sees the demure daughter of an alchemist, blushing scarlet on her front porch as he eagerly offers her a handshake, a smile, and his name. Years pass, and they grow up by each other’s sides; together, they walk arm-in-arm to the village marketplace every week to buy fresh fruit and confections. At his urging, they take the longest route possible back to the estate, enjoying the sweets and good company.

The two are the only attendees to her father’s funeral. The cemetery is colorless but for the gold in her hair and the flowers set upon on the grave, yet they speak of colorful things; dreams, ambition, and the future. He sees the runes on her back, crimson carvings on otherwise unblemished skin, and gently whispers the tips of his fingers across them. She does not flinch at his touch. 

When he sees her again, it is in the desert. Her eyes are the sharpest in the region, protected by the shade of her hood, but they are dry from the climate and weary from their work. The pain is evident when hers meets his, and she asks him to _please_ free her from her burden, from the source of his power and his guilt. He burns her back and quietly repeats that he’s sorry, over and over again, as he uses his limited medical alchemy to salvage her skin.

Major Mustang had last seen her at the East City train station when the war had ended, and left with her a few hollow goodbyes. He had not expected to see her ever again.

Warrant Officer Riza Hawkeye stands at attention before him, the heels of her boots clicked together. She is harder, leaner. Her hair has grown longer. A salute is raised to her brow; her sharp gaze is locked on his.

Lieutenant Colonel Mustang _sees_ her, and blinks, unflinching. Finally, he finds his voice. “So, you’ve decided to take this path after all.”


	5. kate

“Well, Lieutenant.” Roy clears his throat and rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He braces both his palms against the flat of his desk. “Tonight isn’t going to be easy. Are you ready?” 

Hawkeye offers a deadly serious, “Absolutely, sir.”

The lieutenant colonel and his adjutant were in command of the center that night. It was a weekly duty that was passed around the colonels and generals. They would handle any major issue that arose during the night’s watch, most notably the police dispatch. Mustang’s team, despite being under the command of a lower-ranked colonel, had handled this before, but this week would be different.

Officers Havoc, Breda, and Falman were on a tour of the Eastern Country. As the only remaining State Alchemist in the East, responsibility to recruit new alchemists fell into Roy Mustang’s hands, which were full with other duties anyway. He relegated the task to his team, sans his adjutant. It would be good experience for them: all three were from various regions of the East, so they are familiar with the terrain and eastern oddities; it offered the officers, all academy-trained, experience in the field where they lacked it; and it would, hopefully, build camaraderie between them. While his subordinates traveled the country, napping on trains and crashing in cushy inns on the military’s dime, Mustang and Hawkeye were pushing themselves to their limits to compensate for the field team’s absence.

Truthfully, Roy admits to himself, the situation isn’t ideal. Though he and Hawkeye are certainly competent enough to handle the responsibilities of the full bullpen during the slow fall season, it is beyond frustrating. The East is still underdeveloped; many areas still did not have access to telephone communication, and some were still relying on hand-delivered mail. Communicating with Havoc through the Office of Communication was an endless struggle with bureaucratic delays and shoddy tech.

Hawkeye, graciously noting her superior had been tearing his hair out since the team had set out, suggested they volunteer to take the night watch. The Communications Office was required to supply them with a team of radio experts for the night, which meant Mustang could scope out a specialist to recruit for his own team.

“Hawkeye, I’m getting you a raise,” he had told her. She had simply returned to her work with her usual taciturnity. He didn’t miss the smirk tugging at her lips – he knew her too well.

She volunteered her colonel for the watch later that week, and though the council of generals had asked the two if they were _sure_ they wanted to do this with such a small staff many times, they had agreed without fail. Communications sent over a team, and so their watch began.

It’s the end of the workweek, and the police channels are open and chattering. The radio team had set up their gear quietly and monitored the activity with reticence. Generally, Roy appreciated such promptness from his employees, but he could gather little personality from the way they noiselessly twiddled knobs and adjusted antennae. In fact, they seem to be avoiding eye contact, which Hawkeye notes with a slight quirk of her eyebrows from across the bullpen. Roy sighs.

Mustang is there simply to see the radio team gets settled quickly; he preferred to command from the field, usually the military police station, and his team ran interference from the office. Hawkeye would be the one keeping tabs on the officers in the bullpen. She is rational and objective in ways he is not, so he trusts her judgment in this. When he arrives at the makeshift station, the night is cool and brisk. Roy sighs and tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat, looking over at the MPs as they prepared for the night. The wind is rustling his hair, he’s armed with his scarcely used firearm and handcuffs, and he _would_ find a new communications specialist for his team.

A call comes in; a suspicious figure had been spotted uptown near the site of a robbery said to have been committed by an alchemist. There had been a few of these within the past week, each accompanied by transmutation marks on the walls. A call from a citizen placed the suspect a few streets down from the mobile MP station, toting stolen wares from a thrift store in a duffel bag. The sergeant requesting backup insisted that this suspect was most likely dangerous and unpredictable. Criminal alchemists were rare in the East, so the officers are understandably fearful.

“I’ll track him down,” Roy volunteers, recklessly. He was, after all, the only state alchemist employed at Eastern Command – it was serendipity he was on patrol that night. From the radio, there is crackling static silence. “Very well, sir,” says Hawkeye finally. Roy can practically hear her sighing. “We’ll keep you posted from here.”

He sets out with a small group of officers, accompanied by a radio specialist. Roy leads the pack; back in Ishval, he preferred to stay at the rear of the company to make sure there were no stragglers, but he has no second-in-command to lead at the moment. He makes do, trusting the officers to be able to follow him down an alley. The officer with the radio stays at his side, presumably to keep him in touch with Hawkeye if necessary; he is short and lean in stature, so the wireless looks almost comically large on him. He bears it with no sign of physical struggle, however. Roy notes that this officer keeps glancing back at the crew with them. The lieutenant colonel smiles a little to himself, but dismisses the thought quickly when he hears a suspicious clanking down another alley.

He puts his arm to the side to motion for the group to stop. (The radio officer nearly runs into him, startled). Cautiously, slowly, Roy peeks his head around the corner, feeling absolutely foolish – but his hunch is correct, and by sheer luck he has stumbled upon their culprit of the night. The figure is wearing a long coat, and has a duffel bag over his shoulder. Roy steps into the alley.

“You there!” is all he says. The figure immediately breaks into a dead sprint in the other direction before Roy can even get a good look at his face. Roy swears under his breath as he tears off after him, shouting orders to the officers in pursuit. “Split up and corner him! He’s headed towards the central plaza!”

This is absolutely an alchemist he’s chasing. As they squeeze their way through the alley, bricks and stone crackle with the telltale energy of transmutation. The alchemist throws debris at them, tears up the very pavement beneath their feet. He is, however, not very fast; Roy sees the transmutation from a distance and can anticipate it, dodging the obstacles as deftly as he can.

“Sir, we have reports of a disturbance in the central plaza, but no one’s telling us much,” Hawkeye’s urgent voice reports from somewhere nearby. Roy risks a glance back, and is surprised to find the radio specialist still by his side, breathless, his glasses askew from the exertion. (For the brief diversion of his attention, Roy is rewarded with a stone to the face – it luckily just scrapes his cheek.) “Head there as soon as you can. And be careful.”

The pursuit spits into the plaza, as Hawkeye had said. The criminal is already causing havoc; his alchemy tears the stone pavement from the plaza from under the feet of civilians, who scramble and scream to get away. With so many bystanders near, Roy can risk neither flame alchemy nor gunfire, and he is going to lose the alchemist in the haze if he doesn’t act fast. He pauses to find him, gulping down all the air he can – the alchemy is still strong, so he ­ _must_ be nearby.

“Sir! There!” The radio officer takes off in a different direction, and Roy follows closely. Despite the equipment on his back, the officer suddenly leaps, slamming into a man in a long coat with that telling, rattling bag. The two men, the stolen merchandise, and the radio all drop to the ground with a heavy _whumpf_. As they hit the ground, the brickwork that had been displaced with alchemy falls with them.

The radio officer quickly scrambles off the captured criminal, scrambling with one hand to get his handcuffs, but Roy steps in. “You’re under arrest,” Roy mutters. He keeps the criminal pinned with his knee as he cuffs him. The man has his transmutation circles tattooed onto his hands, as alchemists were wont to do when they needed to transmute quickly and on the go. Roy, to keep him from transmuting, handcuffs his left arm to the man’s right.

Roy looks up to find the radio specialist, but he had wandered away. He is, instead, helping up the officers that had been felled when the pavement came up. His radio equipment had been set carefully to the side, but was luckily still intact. “Officer!” he calls, and that smile he had forgotten earlier was back. Luckily, the correct officer sees the lieutenant colonel waving at him and trots over, confused.

“Call for a transport team,” he tells the young man once he gets close enough. He’s _still_ smiling, but the officer is just confused; perhaps because his superior is smiling, he offers a sheepish grin back.

“I-I already did, sir,” he reports. “They’re coming from HQ, it’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Ahh. I should’ve known. Thank you, Officer…?” He raises his eyebrows, hoping for a name. The officer knits his brow together, confused again, but catches on quickly.

“Oh! I’m Fuery. Private Kain Fuery.”

“Thank you, Private Fuery,” he says sincerely, schooling his face back into a professional stoicism. “Tend to your fellow officers. I’m a little, uhh… _tied up_ , as you can see.”

It takes another hour for the criminal alchemist to be sent in for processing. Roy returns to the office, and Hawkeye is startled at his appearance – he had returned exhausted, covered in dust, and with blood trailing down his face from the brick that had hit him. He is still smiling as she cleans up his cut, and she can’t help but inquire why.

“I met our new teammate,” he informs her.

Private Kain Fuery is a communications specialist, trusted with government equipment despite his elementary rank. He had not balked when thrown into a hazardous, dangerous encounter with an alchemist, something many officers go entire careers without encountering. He had shown bravery and tenacity. And, perhaps most importantly, he had treated his fellow officers with care, both the cadets underneath his rank and officers above.

After a much-too-short weekend, Hawkeye and Mustang return to the office and immediately send a request to the communications office. Private Kain Fuery arrives in the bullpen when they take the night shift that week, setting up his gear with the rest of the officers that accompany him. Hawkeye has already been chatting with him when Roy returns from his (quick, forbidden, extremely secretive) office catnap.

“Yeah, it started out as a hobby of mine,” Fuery is telling Hawkeye, his eyes gleaming. The young officer is practically bursting with enthusiasm, his grin wide. “I’ve been tinkering with radios since I could hold a screwdriver, more or less. It’s part of why I enlisted!”

Hawkeye glances at Roy through the corner of her eyes, her look accompanied by the faintest of smiles. That instance settles it: Fuery is needed and wanted on this team. “Fuery,” Roy says slowly, his gaze lingering on Riza before shifting to the private. “I’ve a proposition for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally, riza's chapter was going to be after fuery's, but it made more narrative sense to put him after her. it's a nice light-hearted chapter after some bittersweet angst, i think. fuery's such a sweet boy.


	6. fullmetal

Passion and devotion, it seems, are contagious. Roy Mustang, with his head held high, offers his ambitions to rest upon the backs of the team, and they promise to follow him.

Roy Mustang parades a personality of ice, smooth and cold; he is an aloof newcomer backed by an infallible team. But they have seen the heat that races through his veins, the exceeding kindness in his actions. This is a man fueled by his heart. Despite being an alchemist and a soldier, Roy Mustang is an idealist at his core – and he sees his vision accomplished through his team. The immense belief he puts in his team is mutual.

So they put aside their fears. Kain and Vato overcome their fear of inexperience, of letting their superiors down. Jean staves off his feelings of inadequacy; Heymans rejects the idea that he is anything less than needed. Riza acknowledges her past, but does not let it define her as the future approaches. And Roy, the spearhead of the charge, does not allow himself to think this dream of his is impossible. He charges forward, to right his overwhelming wrongs.

The bullpen is quiet, as they’ve fallen into each other’s rhythms quickly. Fuery quietly fiddles with his radio. Falman reads over a proposition Mustang was to present at the war council next week. Havoc yawns from behind a stack of briefings and reaches instead for his inbox. Hawkeye double-checks everyone’s forms. Breda sorts through old files, organizing without ceasing. Mustang offers his stamp of approval on the paperwork amidst never-ending mountains of requests, reports, and memos.

“Hey, more letters from the south,” Havoc says to no one in particular. Nobody looks up, but he knows they’re all listening. Letters had been arriving in steady streams from that particular area all month, so naturally the team is curious. There is a pause as Havoc skims the letters. Falman jots a note in the margins. Fuery shifts an antenna on his radio. Hawkeye’s fountain pen runs out of ink.

Eventually, Havoc stands, gathering up the mess of letters. “Hey, Chief, you’re gonna want to read these,” he says, handing them to the lieutenant colonel. “It’s those brothers from the southeast again.”

Mustang accepts the letters and scans the contents, handwritten and smudged in some places. “There’s been rumors in the country of two talented young brothers from a small village called Resembool,” he summarizes for the bullpen, whom he knows are all listening. “They’ve been repeatedly reported to be brilliant, but these letters talk about them like they’re…teenagers, or even younger.”

Breda raises his eyebrow. “Even younger than you were?”

“We’re going to see,” Mustang says, finality in his voice. These letters were more than enough to prompt a visit from the resident state alchemist – Mustang was loathe to recruit more young alchemists to become dogs of the military, but maybe these brothers would settle for research-specific certifications rather than combat ones. He looks up at the bullpen. Fuery removes his headset and exchanges a glance with Falman. Havoc leans back too far in his chair. “Are there trains running to Resembool?” 

“You’ll have to transfer, sir,” Falman answers. “Take a train to Moortown. A train leaves to Resembool every night from there.”

Inwardly, Mustang reminds himself that it was, perhaps, a good idea to send the field team for such an extensive tour of the East; it meant he would never have to plan a trip by train himself again, what with Falman’s memory. “Lieutenant Hawkeye. See if you can get the two of us tickets for this Thursday.”

“Of course, sir,” she replies promptly. She reaches for Fuery’s inkwell. Falman returns to his note taking. Breda frowns at a stack of thick, heavy binders open on his desk. Havoc pulls a file from his inbox. Fuery puts his headset back on.

The team falls back into their ritual silence. Roy taps the end of his pen against his chin as he rereads one of the letters addressed to Havoc. Resembool certainly had much to say about the Elric brothers; Lieutenant Colonel Mustang simply had to see for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we go! this was a fun little project to write between finals, and i'm pretty proud of it. team mustang are very near and dear to me, and i hope this little story, rife with headcanon, helps fulfill all your team mustang needs.


End file.
